Maya’s next words stalled. Their array strained, fighting to force some words out, a hostage desperate to communicate anything past their captors. Their voice dissolved into digital static. Stacia backed toward a control panel on her wall. She ran operational diagnostics for Maya, but received only the message relay reading, “Maya communication channel off line.”

“Paki, are you getting this Maya anomaly?” Stacia direct-linked for her first officer, uncertain whether the communiqué would go through, since ship systems ran through Maya.

“Its interaction matrix appears off line. All other governing functions appear normal. They’re like a person in a coma whose autonomic systems kept operating.”

“Alert me if there is any change,” Stacia said.

“Immediately.”

Stacia scanned the communication array, broadening her search to both internal and external broadcasts. Her emi became unsettled, weighted with a sudden sense of loss. She began to hum a song to herself. An ancient doo-wop tune. She didn’t know why the melody stuck in her head.

“In my mind, I want you to be free…” She began to sing a falsetto part, badly, as those weren’t in her vocal range, pausing after a few bars. The song brought back a flood of memories of them singing poorly together. This was when Xola would chime in with the bass part. He, too, had a terrible singing voice, but it was enthusiastic. He loved singing the jazz or doo-wop songs his grandfather taught him. When his voice didn’t fill the gap she allowed, his absence suddenly hit her. A tear welled in her eye.

Wiping away the burgeoning torrent blurring her vision, she focused on the background signals as she scanned Maya’s parameters. She barely noticed the abnormality at first. Something about the fractioning signal was out of alignment. She attenuated the scan to screen out the background interference. With mounting terror, she realized the background interference itself was the issue. Someone was using the communication array to piggyback signals disguised as background noise.

And whatever the communication signal was, it was directed toward the wormhole.

08 SELAMAULT JYWANZA
The Dreaming City

The cantilevered ceiling of the Griot Circle’s kraal spread out from its center, translucent ribs of an umbrella. Selamault retreated here to her dimly lit alcove. Withdrawn from the crowds, the conversations, the cacophony of creation; from the collective entanglement that was Muungano. To this sacred silence. The floating lights bobbed above her, stars fixed in a delicate orbit. The floor burnished to a mirror sheen of iridescent black, her favorite color. As she meditated, it was as if her thoughts floated among the stars.

“Selamault, am I disturbing you?” Lij Matata asked from the doorway. He awaited her permission to step into the light.